


A Shadowed Mind

by gaylock, gaysandcrime



Series: The Aftermath [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Nightmares, One Shot, TRF, The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:20:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8753170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaylock/pseuds/gaylock, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaysandcrime/pseuds/gaysandcrime
Summary: John Watson knows that the dead stay with us past the grave; in dreams, in nightmares. Sherlock Holmes is no different.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the short horror story I read somewhere online by C. J. Miozzi.

John scrambles to his feet. Disoriented from the fall, he reaches out into the darkness and touches the cold, stone tombstone he tripped over. His heart races -- his pulse throbbing in his temples. His eyes refuse to focus, and he barely catches a glimpse of the golden lettering on the stone before fear grips him and he has to turn away.

"Sherlock," he whispers into the night. " _Sherlock_. Where the hell are you?"

John spins about in the dim light, darkness pressing in, figures of whispy smoke and shadow floating up from the ground all around him. He remembers this, the mist, the fear; Baskerville and all its horrors fill his mind, and he runs. The darkness moves with him, getting closer and closer  _and closer._ Panic rises up in his chest and claustrophobia he has never experienced before takes over his mind.  _Trap, it was a trap, the darkness the shadows...Sherlock, have to find Sherlock, have to get him get SherlockGetSherlockGETSHERLOCK-_

Suddenly he is laying sprawled on the pavement, his head pounding out a desperate rhythm alongside his heart. He feels that same panic in his chest again, its icy fingers squeezing him until he gasps and chokes, running and running and _running,_ not sure where he's going at all, only that  _he must get there, now, before Sherlock, before, no no NO! It's a trap, just a trick, just a magic tric-_ ,

John sees Sherlock's phone first, pieces of it scattered and crushed on the cement. The darkness recedes the moment he lays eyes on it, and his heart stutters to a stop because there, right beside it, is Sherlock. John's eyes are unfocused as he steps forward and kneels down, shaking his friend frantically, desperately.

"Sherlock, _Sherlock,_ come on, we have to go," He doesn't get a response and shakes a little harder. "Come _on,_ Sherlock, we need to  _leave!_ We can't stay here, not now, please Sherlock,  _plea-_ "

Suddenly the darkness is back, and it brings the tombstone with it.

Wisps of shadow and smoke curl around his body, and he grabs Sherlock's wrist and holds tight, afraid that is he lets go for even a moment, he will be lost in the mist and the shadows, sucked in and drowning, and John will never find him again. The sound of a dog growling rises up out of the darkness, and the glitter of red eyes pierces through his mind.

John holds his breath and squeezes his eyelids shut. _Don't come this way, don't come this way, it's not real, it's all a lie all fake not a hound, not a hound not a hound not a-_

The growling fades away.

John mentally counts to sixty with his eyes still closed, before letting out a deep breath, trying to empty his mind of panic. He holds tight to Sherlock's hand and stands up, wondering if he'll be able to carry him.

After ensuring that the monster is really gone, and not just hiding, John turns back to look at Sherlock, who hasn't moved once. He squats beside his friend, holding a hand in front of unseeing blue-grey eyes and frowns.

_Dammit_ , he thinks irritably. _Why does he always have to pick the worst times to go into his Mind Palace?_

"Having a little difficulty, Johnny Boy?"

John twists around with a start.

Jim Moriarty stands there, as if he rose straight from the shadow and darkness, leaning against the tombstone casually.

John feels his throat close up and staggers back. "What?" He reaches into his pocket, searching for his gun. "How did you- _no._ No, just, _just stay back."_

Jim grins. It doesn't reach his eyes. He taps the tombstone beneath him lightly, his empty brown eyes running up and down John's crouched body.

Unsettled and with the feeling that Moriarty being here was somehow very _wrong_ , John searches harder for his gun. "Look, I don't care what you do to me, you bastard, just leave Sherlock, leave him  _alone."_

Moriarty shakes his head and laughs. "You're quite the good little guard doggy, aren't you?" He stands up suddenly and frowns in mock sadness. "But I'm afraid that won't be possible."

Hands shaking, John's mind wheels about in hysteria and he starts searching Sherlock's coat for his gun. "Please, _please,_ " he starts shivering and watches the shadows around Moriarty pulse and writhe. "Can you...can you at least tell me  _why?"_

"Oh, you _do_ beg rather nicely. I can see why Sherlock keeps you around. Mmmm," Moriarty's voice is lilting and playful as he say's, "Well, alright, although I do so  _hate_ to ruin the surprise." He grins and turns around suddenly, and John recoils in horror. The back of Moriarty's head is bloody and torn apart, and John can see bits of skull and brain.

John's sharp intake of breath makes Moriarty turn back around, the grin still on his face. "Now do you see?"

His hands are shaking and confusion wars with alarm in his mind. "I don't- I don't understand."

"We are the same, him and I. Only he's  _boring._ So I make it into a game, and the loser has to fall." Moriarty takes a single step backward and tilts his head. "And Sherlock plays so well and loses _so_ prettily."

And John is shaking his head, because  _no, this doesn't make sense, Sherlock hasn't lost, he hasn't, he's still here,_ and John stands up because suddenly he is  _so angry,_ at the world, at Moriarty, at Mycroft, and at  _Sherlock,_ with their stupid games and their stupid rules and their  _stupidstupidstupidstupid._ He drags Sherlock's hand up with him and holds it so tightly he fears he might break it. 

Moriarty watches him in silence before tapping the grave behind him with one finger. "You're so  _ordinary,_ it's positively adorable." He reaches around to the back of his head, and when he brings his hand back around to his face, it is covered in dark red blood. He closes his eyes and runs the hand down his face just once, very slowly. John feels the urge to vomit, can feel the sick and the panic and the fear rushing up his throat and has to turn away to puke onto the pavement beside him. When he turns back, Moriarty is once again watching him with his empty brown eyes.

"That doesn't, it doesn't make sense. None of it, I don't- I don't get it."

Jim sighs and licks a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth. "Look at the name, John." He taps his finger against the tombstone again, just the once.

As if against his will, John's eyes turn towards the stone. The feeling of intense  _wrongness_ that has been hovering at the edge of his mind flares up, and it's all he can do not to look away. His vision tunnels and narrows, and everywhere the darkness presses in, suffocating him until the only thing he can see is the gravestone and the name on it.

_Sherlock Holmes._

"No," John's voice is a whisper, the sound swallowed up by the shadows and the smoke. He drops Sherlock's hand back to the pavement.

"I told you, I told you all. 'The fall is coming, Sherlock', 'I owe you a fall, Sherlock'. But he didn't listen, he didn't want to  _play."_ Moriarty is now standing beside him, and his voice is quiet, so quiet, and somehow still the loudest thing John has ever heard. "So I made him. And when he didn't follow the rules, I ended the game."

 _"No."_ John's voice is louder, firmer, and more desperate.  _This can't be happening, it isn't real, just a nightmare, Sherlock is fine, he's fine he's fine he's-_

"Look behind you, John." Moriarty leans forward suddenly, taller than John's ever seen him, his grin wide and manic and terrible.

"No, it's just a trick, a trick, it's all pretend, he's fine, he's still alive-"

_"Look."_

And the darkness climbs up and into his lungs, freezing them like ice. He turns around against his will, everything screaming  _wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong,_ and looks.

John's blood runs cold.

Sherlock lays there, his eyes empty and unseeing, his skin pale and stiff. As he watches, the side of Sherlock's skull caves in and a pool of blood wells up underneath it.

"Say goodbye, Johnny Boy."

***

John's heart thudded painfully in his chest when he woke up, sheets covered in vomit and face wet with tears.

 


End file.
